writing to get through

Growing up in 1950s Eagle Rock, in NE Los Angeles, July 4th was a community event. The families gathered at the local park where children roamed in packs from one family blanket to another. Cotton candy was the food staple, accompanied by sandwiches, hot dogs purchased from the local firefighters with GIANT vats of ketchup pumped by our little hands and ending up on our little shirts. At dark my two older sisters and I would huddle together on the blanket and compete to guess the color of the next firework –shooting into the air and exploding over our heads while we oohed and aahed in delight and wonder – always a little afraid that those trails of burning light might last long enough to land on us and kind of hoping they would. In those days you were left to your own thoughts about freedom, bombs bursting in air and patriotism, without any music to push you further.

The fireworks were amazing in blazing reds, silver, blue and gold, dancing over the monuments and the river. The U.S. Navy Band played and the breeze carried the sound and the colors over our heads and into our hearts.

When I was single and working in Washington, D.C. it happened to be the Bicentennial year of 1976 when a large group of us met at the hillside of Arlington Cemetery, along with hundreds of others, to watch the special fireworks display. We young women spread out red, white and blue blankets and pulled out picnic baskets overflowing with fried chicken, pies, quiches, apples and cherries, hoping to impress the young men who did handstands and cartwheels on the grass hoping to impress us. The fireworks were amazing in blazing reds, silver, blue and gold, dancing over the monuments and the river. The U.S. Navy Band played and the breeze carried the sound and the colors over our heads and into our hearts.

As a young mother, I lived in Los Angeles while my husband, Randy, pursued a career as a film editor and I wrote Sunday School stories for a curriculum publisher. And worked on a screenplay, like every other LA writer. We lived at the top of a high hill overlooking Chavez Revine and set up our balcony as Fourth of July Central. The babies were bathed and in pajamas and sat on our laps while we downed beers and burped through God Bless America. From there we could see fireworks at eye level and several others surrounding downtown. I played “What color is the next one?” with my toddlers.

A few years later I was a single Mom living on a historic street in La Mesa and we organized a 4th of July parade with all the children. I bought a cassette tape of Sousa Marches and we put in in the red wagon. Costumes were fashioned and ranged from Uncle Sam to Mary Poppins to Jerry Mahoney. Neighbors sat on their front lawns and watched the children march up one side and down the other, once, again, and yet again. The local newspaper documented the event. On my front lawn was a table of watermelons – icy cold and sliced – so the whole street gathered and ate and a new tradition was started – spitting seeds into the bushes.

Ten years later my July 4ths became water events for the next decade. My new husband, Mike, was a boat guy. We’d gather a group of kids and friends and head out to the water, getting as close to the barges as possible. Earsplitting launches exploded into incredible colors spinning and spiraling overhead. And yes, as the fireworks burned their way into the water at times, sizzling and fizzling like a match. But I was never afraid with Mike around. That lasted, even after he became ill, until the year that our oldest child’s family and their best friends came over to watch fireworks from our back lawn. I was again on top of a hill and we could see about four different displays coming from various locations in the valley below. The grandkids were parked on blankets on our lawn, dancing colors reflected in their faces, eyes wide in wonder. It was the most beautiful July 4th of all. The next day I was awakened by a noise that sounded like the random firecrackers that get set off in neighborhoods. But it was different. Pounding. At last I sat up and realized that it was sound of Mike’s cane.

“Mike, are you O.K.?” I shouted from my bed.

“No,” he shouted back. “I’m blind.”

After that, I didn’t make a big deal of fireworks. I didn’t seem fair to watch them with a blind man.

This week I planned ahead. I’m a widow now and living at the little La Mesa house again.

My sister called, “Are you doing anything for the Fourth?”

“Yes,” I said. “I bought a rack of ribs that I’m going to slow cook on the barbeque, corn on the cob and then some hot dogs to use up the coals. I have some wine, some sweet potato fries, fresh green beans from the Farmer’s Market and I bought a Key Lime pie. I got a fire log for the fire ring after dark and I might put a beach chair on the roof to see if I can see any fireworks.”

“You must be expecting company.”

“No, actually, I just wanted to create a fabulous day for myself. I’m going to sit in the shade and finish the courtroom novel on my Kindle, be in my bathing suit, do a little yard work and putter around. I’ve got the outdoor shower if it gets hot and the fire ring if it gets cold. It will be perfect.”

And it was.

My 21-year-old daughter did drop by and we watched Chef together and hung out and ate ribs and corn and caught up a little. I gave her my tickets to the Fair and she spent time on her phone hustling up a friend to take to watch fireworks, as she should. I hope her 4th was one of the memorable ones.

Like this:

The following is an excerpt from my book, The Truth Swing: It’s Not What They Taught Me in Sunday School.

Chapter 9 – A Choice

The room was dark and outside crickets kept a rhythmic chant just past my bedroom door. Beyond the door was a private brick patio with a high wooden fence. Stepping stones wound a path down to the hot tub. Another unmarked path of sorts had been worked through the trees and bushes beyond the wood fence to a dirt driveway crowned with arches of tree branches. A driveway where a truck could hide in secret from the road, from the windows of the kids’ bedrooms upstairs or from the driveway. Even a white truck.

I was awake at the first sound and the crickets became silent. Tires on the dirt and rock ground to a halt. Headlights went dark.

The knock at night.

I opened the door and was swept up into an embrace that took my breath away.

His kiss was homey and comfortable. This was neither a fairy tale nor romance novel. This was a real man, a good man, coming to see me. Missing me. Wanting me. The knock in the night worked its magic. We snuggled close and soon our snores became a soft counterpoint to the cricket staccato.

What are you doing? The voice rang through my head and my eyes opened wide. I sat up like a shot.

What WAS I doing? Who was this person? Who was I? Forty-one years-old with a thickening waist, skin tight around a womb that held growing tissue and blood. Cells splitting and doubling every day. A baby! I have a fulltime career, a man who loves me and four stepchildren that I’m trying to get to trust me, plus my own two getting at that eye-rolling stage.

But I do want a baby. I don’t feel finished. I feel like there will always be a “his” and “mine” without the “ours.” I can do this. I can do a baby. I’ve done it for years alone. If I have to be alone again, I’ll do it. Lord, help me figure this out.

Morning brought the elephant in the living room into sharp focus. What were we going to do about the pregnancy? Mike brought me coffee, toast and an omelet on a tray. I sat up and fluffed the pink pillowcases. He went to pick a rose from outside but as he was coming through the doorway, I threw off the covers and made a beeline for the toilet…head first. Mike was patient while I brushed my teeth and tongue and wiped my mouth with a towel, then sat on the edge of the bed.

“We have to talk,” I said. A relationship-killer if I ever heard one. I wasn’t even embarrassed by the cliché.

He stared at me, didn’t flinch, didn’t whine, didn’t look away.

“It’s not so much about the baby,” I started to explain. “I’m pretty old to be wanting a baby. The thought of picking up a diaper bag and carrying it around until I’m 42 is not a happy thought. But it’s about the family. How can we say we want to try to blend a family and be a new family and not have the one thing that can really make us one, our baby together? It just doesn’t make sense to me.”

“There is also the potential that every one of the other kids may feel instantly left out,” Mike said. “We don’t want everyone else to feel abandoned or not a part of a family and that only the baby matters to us. Where will that leave us?”

It was a good point. My two were reaching that age when they disconnect anyway and don’t feel that they matter to anyone, let alone career-mom with a hot husband. Would a baby sever that thin thread of trust that remains between a mom and a teenager? Will I be able to love them enough? Can any mother love them enough when they are twelve and fourteen?

“It’s my body. It’s happening to me. I will be the one throwing up every morning, sticking to healthy eating, not drinking wine, assuming the responsibility.

“You will get to choose whether or not to be responsible to raise this child. Men get to walk away and pretty much do walk away most of the time. No shame, no stigma, no sweat. It’s pregnant girls who get thrown out of high school, why not the boys, too? Engaging with family will always be a choice for men! They get to choose every day for the rest of their lives!

I took a breath and swallowed. Mike was looking down.

“My choice is right now.”

“And you’re going to make it alone? Without me?

“Me and God. We are going to make this choice.”

Scripture tells us that words are as powerful as a sword and it’s so true. I could see the cuts in Mike’s hurt eyes.

Like this:

Passover and Easter have evolved into odd civic holidays that celebrate the rites of Spring, fertility, rebirth, seeds spouting, lambs being born (and eaten), eggs being decorated (and eaten), chicks and bunnies soft and squeaking in baskets, or their chocolate equivalents smearing across tiny faces. Why odd?

Well even though at Christmas the birth of Christ and arrival of Santa Claus have no connection, there’s the giving of a gift that affords it some type of universal credence. But the Easter Bunny has no connection whatsoever to slavery, deliverance, death and resurrection.

Passover commemorates the release of the Jewish slaves from captivity in Egypt. The story is rich with plagues, a secret prince (Moses), murder and miracles, the parting of the Red Sea, the visit of the first-born sons by the angel of death. The key ingredient at the Seder table is unleavened bread representing their hurried departure.
Easter commemorates the betrayal of Jesus Christ, who claimed to be the Messiah, the Son of God, his trials, crucifixion, death, burial. Then his resurrection. The key ingredient is the wine and bread representing the spilt blood and pierced flesh of Christ. No chocolate bunnies in sight.

Digging deeper, both celebrations invite us to remember what is gone and to wait for deliverance.

Remembering can be hard for the person who is alone. I lived for years with a busy houseful of children, step-children, “adopted” children and friends of children. It was expansive and fun within those four walls. The phone rang constantly, events, meals, cars coming and going, birthdays, graduations, new jobs, lost jobs. I used to tell them, “If you have a crisis you have about three weeks to milk it because by then another will come along.”

Remembering and re-living that season of my life is a struggle. I look at pictures and sigh. I wonder how all those folks are doing, grown with their own homes, their own families, work and accomplishments. It’s weird to go all day without a phone call, not to be making a costume, a decoration, a huge dinner or even a dessert. I sometimes look up their Facebook pages even if I’m not a friend, just to see their smiles.

Maybe a better way is to remember with joy and be grateful for having that time of life at all. One that many would have given anything to have had. Think back to your favorite Easter memories–was it hiding eggs as a child – or finding them? Was it brand new patent leather shoes at any age? Spring break in college? Surrounding a church pulpit with dozens of lilies? Cutting off a piece of crusty, salty lamb fat and popping it in your mouth with a juicy sliver of meat?

Waiting for change is an even greater challenge, even if it’s not deliverance from bondage or rising from the dead. The change we think will never get here. The check that’s in the mail. The escrow taking forever to close. The vacation that we’ve been putting off year after year. The retirement that we keep pushing back.

Often it’s the waiting that brings about more change than the actual receiving of what you are waiting to happen. Waiting strengthens us, even when it’s hard. But sometimes what comes after is just plain miraculous.

Like this:

We raise a glass of green beer, or Bailey’s or Irish Whiskey and wear green so we don’t get pinched and think that maybe – just for a day – there are “little people” stealing our pens from our desks, scampering through the kitchen cupboards and hiding pots of gold at the end of rainbows. No other Christian saint has embodied a more eclectic set of myths and legends, both real and imagined, than the young British 16 year-old boy who was captured by Irish pirates and held as a slave for six years.

That ordeal ended when he heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Your ship is ready,” perhaps an early Gaelic version of “Your ship has come in?” He escaped, walked 200 miles to a port and spent three days starving on board before finally reaching home. After gaining an education and becoming a clergyman, Patrick was given a new vision to return to Ireland, the land of his abject humiliation and dread. Return he did, spouting redemption in Jesus Christ and becoming a beloved Saint.

Who does that? Me, I run from pain. I block off hurtful memories. Why revisit the place of loneliness?

All it takes is courage. And a little faith.

So on this special feast day of March 17, celebrated nearly worldwide on behalf of a saint whom we now associate with druids, snakes, dragons, drinking and corned beef, cabbage and potatoes, why not whip up some resolve and think back. Drive out the snakes and behead the dragons that you carry around with you from the past.

Have you been imprisoned by abuse, by poverty, by others’ expectations? Have your own choices been like chains at your ankles and were you once a slave to your addictions or desires, hoping for rescue? And then you became your own white knight, escaped and trod the 200-mile road of recovery?

Here’s to you.

Did you receive a vision to set yourself apart from the crowd and become inspired to get out of debt? Step away from keeping up with your neighbors, buying that fancier car, going on that exotic vacation to feel better than others? And how did that feel? And how long did that feeling last? Are you done with all of that?

Here’s to you.

Have you heard the voice of God calling you to be loved by him, to trust his grace to meet your needs and guide your future? Do you know that he is for you and is as close as the next breath you take? That God is in you and around you, above you and lifting you up and has been there all along. And, regardless of the circumstances, loves you like a favorite child.

Can you look at your life and see that you were not alone? Never alone.

Maybe it’s not so bad, once a year, to step back from the parades and crowds and go back to those hard places that we’ve survived. The dragons we’ve conquered. The beliefs we stand on. We may not be saints, but we’re making progress with faith and courage.

Like this:

No one loves me. Oh, I get Valentine’s cards from my kids, occasionally. Or I used to. That started to drop off after 6th grade and now that they are all living on their own and adults, that’s more of a memory. My parents are gone, God rest their souls. My husband is sailing around heaven in a 57 ft. sailboat. I have some great friends, new and old, who are dear to me. But the best thing about Valentine’s Day to me is that three cute pillows I made sold at the gift store down the street. I’m the one who gets scheduled to work until 10 p.m. on Valentine’s Day because no one loves me. It’s true.

Approaching Valentine’s Day alone could be daunting and although there are lots of opportunities to show love to strangers or go to a Cupid is Stupid party, I have a better idea.

Love yourself.

Why not take a day to acknowledge love that you have given and has been given to you at different stages of your life, even if they are over. Take a day to know that you have been loved, whether it was grandma, your dad, your infant child, your best friend in 3rd grade or that fumbling, passionate prom date. We know what being loved feels like and it’s OK to celebrate that feeling and bathe in it – at least for one day. Jump start love for yourself.

Maybe you love your house, or your yard, or your neighborhood or the beach or a fireplace or a favorite spot in town. Go there. Spend time with the place you love. Sit. Take in the smells and the feelings. Take pictures of your favorite place and start a scrapbook of places you love. You don’t have to post them or pin them. Just keep them for yourself as a love letter to you. It’s not a waste of your time to take pleasure in what you love.

Love the skin you are in. So many of us see negatives in the mirror. Take a good long look. What do you love about your appearance? Is it your hair, your eyebrows, your smile? Is it the way your clothes fit or the way they improve your body? Does red make you smile? I bought a red chiffon blouse with silver sparkles at the neck and sleeves for my Valentine’s Day outfit, even though I sat at a cubicle all day. My desk mate offered me a piece of Godiva chocolates she got from her husband. I doubt if she had thought of it if I had been wearing black. It didn’t matter that my blouse was a size 16. It was a Valentine to my co-workers.

Speaking of skin, dig out some of those skin care products you got for Christmas. In fact, go through the drawers or shelves where you stash your body lotion, face cream and anti-aging Olay bottles. First of all, clean them out and throw away the ones that are too old and still in your guest bathroom basket. Toss the ones that smell like your grandmother. Fill the trash can with the care products that you no longer care about. Next, smooth on the ones that make you feel pampered. Lather the body lotion all over. Try a facial cream or age spot removers or give yourself a 30-minute whitening treatment for your teeth.

Do the same with your hair products. Throw away the hair spray with the stuck nozzle. The mascara that clumps, the lipstick that is no longer creamy. Polish is another demon. Lids that won’t twist, clumps in the bottle, solids in the hairs of the applicators.

Look around. Take the hair out of your hairbrush and throw it in the sink for a soak. All those overcrowded baskets and containers need a fresh start. Make sure everything is fresh and nothing you grab will be tired, dried up, cracked, stuck.

Approach your mirror knowing that nothing you will put on your body has the potential to do harm.

Like this:

I’ve been a widow for three years now and the last of my seven children just moved out. For the first time since I was a young, virginal, 25 year-old newlywed I’m alone.

Really alone.

When the toilet clogs and overflows – I throw down the beach towels to stop the flood, lift them, sopping, from the floor and shove them into the washing machine. When the car breaks down, I call AAA. When I want a meal at a restaurant, I bring a book to avoid the stares of pity. When something exciting happens, I turn to Facebook.

My parents have been gone for a long time – Dad for 26 years, Mom for 16. I don’t really remember Dad’s voice, but I can’t forget Mom’s hands, because all I have to do is look at the keyboard and there they are – minus her weekly manicure. My sisters have families of their own. My children have families and lives of their own. It’s hard not to feel like an appendage to their celebrations.

So how does alone do holidays? Some people claim to know. Every magazine article, every therapy workshop, every single’s blog, every pastor’s sermon has a magic cure for being alone that is supposedly foolproof.

Serve others.

Feed the homeless. Spend the night in a shelter. Donate books to a thrift store. Give – get out of your own head – serve.

I beg to differ.

We all should be doing that, all the time. It’s great to serve when God calls, when you know you are impacting lives, when you have the strength and wherewithal to help a fellow human being who doesn’t have either one. Obedience feels wonderful and purposeful. But there’s another important part of being alone that is not considered, let along encouraged in the body of believers.

Celebrate YOU. Do something, extraordinary, joyful for yourself. Do something that only you knows will make you happy. It’s not a sin to spend a little effort to make yourself happy. Something just for you.

So here’s a little series of blogs to get you through the year celebrating holidays alone. Holidays Times One. And the first one – New Year’s Day.

The first day of a new year is full of hope and promise.

If you are a parade-watcher, join the parade. Buy yourself a dozen roses and bury your face in them when a float goes by. Gather petals and make yourself a mini-float with glue and shoe boxes; theme – your dreams for the year. Many parades have Fairy Tale themes. Take an hour and read your favorite Fairy Tales and make a note of how these stories have influenced your life or have embedded your thoughts with expectations.

If you are a football fan, plan your schedule to watch a game. Bet yourself who will win and give yourself a prize if you are right. Make yourself a nice spread, with chips and chili dogs and popcorn. If you are a former cheerleader, clear out a space on your floor to cheer, really cheer, with kicks and cartwheels if necessary. It’s great exercise and really fun to get that rush. Watch as many Bowl games as possible. Drink in the thrill of the win and the pathos of the loss.

If starting the year with a clean slate makes you happy, do it right. Hire a cleaning service for yourself, just this one day, to sweep away Christmas and give New Year’s Day a fresh start.

There is a movement that celebrates picking One Word for the year. You pray and think and listen to come up with your word. Two years ago my word was “Wait.” I created a visual reminder that I pinned on my office wall. Last year the Word changed to “Watch,” a small shift, but one that implied change was happening. This year is more active – “Write.” The waiting and watching are over.

What about resolutions? Buy a year-long calendar (NeuYear.net) and take a long look, or even take a photo of the calendar as a blank canvas, then fill it with events and goals that will make up your year – things you want to accomplish, books you want to read, trips you want to take. At the end of the year, take another photo and celebrate the progress and make that celebration part of your New Year’s Day tradition.

One of my New Year’s Day traditions is to make a photo album of the year before. I’m been doing this for 15 years. During the year I keep a folder on the computer that I fill with the best pictures of the best times. On New Year’s I make a digital scrap book or photo album to catch those moments and capture experiences that meant the most to me.

My family teases me about my photos of inanimate objects – a pretty place setting or centerpiece, a garden about to yield tomatoes or broccoli, my Christmas lights ir sunsets. Go ahead and laugh. These photos bring me joy and help me feel creative and happy and proves that there is pleasure in my surroundings — it’s not only about visitors and grandchildren at this time in my life. It’s fine to celebrate what you find beautiful as well.

The list is endless and can contain all the secret joys and giddy pleasures that are yours and yours alone – a Lord of the Rings marathon, a new recipe, a fresh, unopened book, trying something you’ve never tried. Forgiving. Moving on.

Like this:

I recently won the San Diego Christian Writers Guild award for Best Unpublished Manuscript. It was great to spur me on and prompted me to try to win a publishing package with Westbow Press, a self-publishing arm of several established publishers. I’m pictured with my friend Gail Nelson Bones who won Best Published Manuscript for her great book, Living Crosswise. Check out her blog